He Finds You
by ArtemisScribe
Summary: You don't find James Moriarty, he finds you.  It's a common misconception people have, he is the all-knowing, all-powerful, ultimate bad guy. Ordinary people assume that a man like that simply can't be tracked down. Moran knows better. Jim and fem!Seb.
1. Hong Kong

You don't find James Moriarty, he finds you.

It's a common misconception people have, he is the all-knowing, all-powerful, ultimate bad guy; the man who spent £30 million just to get Sherlock Holmes to come out and play. Ordinary people assume that a man like that simply can't be tracked down. Moran knows better, but then she isn't ordinary, or so Jim's always telling her. J. Moriarty and fem!Seb (I regret nothing).

Disclaimer: All characters belong to BBC, Mark Gatiss, and the Stephens Moffatt and Thomas, as well as Arthur Conan Doyle (since the unholy trinity have yet to introduce us to a Seb!) No theft or bad intentions meant; fanfic is simply a good writer's block cure.

**2004:** The first time she saw him she had him between the crosshairs of her rifle. She had been loathed to take the job but the client had offered a fee she just couldn't refuse, so here she was in Hong Kong at 2am, brushing her fringe out of her eyes, she really needed to get her hair cut, steadying her breath, slowing her pulse, letting the moment take over. She pulled the trigger and the little man in the swish suit was down. He wasn't dead, not yet, but that had been the deal; her client wanted him to know he was dying. She watched him a little longer as he lay on the deserted pavement, blood pouring from his left leg. Most people thought leg wounds were harmless; they believed what the movies told them, they were idiots. She'd severed the femoral artery; he'd bleed out in minutes, leg shots were just as dangerous as head shots, they just took longer. Further along the street she saw several suited men running towards Moriarty. Help this late at night was odd, she assumed they were bodyguards, which meant it was time to move. Packing up her kit she made a hasty retreat. There was a private jet waiting to whisk her back to London, courtesy of her client; a little sweetener on top of her £800,000 fee. Someone wanted Jim Moriarty dead, really dead.


	2. A Proposition

This was why she hated grudge jobs. She dropped her keys on the coffee table, keeping eye contact with the man sat on her sofa. The man she was contracted to kill two years ago in Hong Kong. Sighing she dropped into the armchair almost opposite him, hoping arrogance and nonchalance would mask the sound of her pounding heart, he had found her! How the hell had that happened?

"James Moriarty, I don't believe we were properly introduced in Hong Kong."

"I told him," she announced airily "I said 'If you want him dead, then let me just kill him, fatally wounding leaves room for mistakes'. And here you are."

He frowned slightly, the corners of his mouth turning up in a crooked smile,

"Are you calling me a mistake?" Moran supressed the urge to shiver, his soft Irish lilt was odd; amused but threatening at the same time.

"No, I'm calling him an idiot. Your survival is simply a by-product of his idiocy," she smiled at him "and it was a waste of a very nice suit."

He laughed, sitting back and considering the woman sat before him.

"I was going to have you killed," she couldn't believe how breezily he said it; he could almost have been talking about buying a pair of shoes, "but you. are. interesting. What would you say if I offered you a job?"

"Who? When? Where? How much?" she answered him instantly, it was something her father had taught her; hesitate and they doubt you.

"I don't mean one kill. I mean a permanent position with me."

"No. The only permanent thing about my job is the fate of my targets," he raised an eyebrow at her, "well most of my targets. A permanent job means you would know far more about me than I'd wish you too, and that's not good for business."

"Charlotte Abigail Sebastian-Moran, 5th generation army brat, I'm assuming that's why you're professionally known as 'The Colonel', cute by the way, daughter of Phillip Sebastian, probably the greatest assassin of his generation, which is why you used dear mummy, Alison's surname, because you want to know your jobs are about you and not about daddy."

His smile broadened as she stared at him. Her mask had slipped, the shock showed on her face, a tiny part of her was impressed, she'd hidden that stuff deep, but he had found it. She found herself going to work mode, breathe deep; calm heart-rate; fire.

"What exactly are you proposing?"

He had her exactly where he wanted her and they both knew it.

"I am a genius, and life. is. Boring! I'm 29 years old and, thanks to my attempts to shake this dull little world up a bit; I am in possession of a considerable amount of money. But just stealing isn't enough anymore."

"It got boring."

"Exactly! I want some variety, some surprises but that isn't going to happen when I know my next move and my opponent's next four moves. So I had an idea. I would help other people commit their crimes. I'd never know who was about to walk through the door, never know what challenge they were going to set me and I could pick jobs because of how interesting they are to me, as well as charging extortionate fees for the privilege of my help."

He was supposed to be dead, probably psychotic and had broken into her flat but something about him drew Moran in, he was captivatingly passionate.

"A consulting criminal," she muttered to herself,

"The only one in the world."

"That's brilliant."

"Thank you."

"These extortionate fees?" she asked "Just how extortionate are we talking here?"

"Ah, not easily distracted by art when there's business at hand. Useful."

"How much?" she insisted.

"You were paid £800,000 to kill me in Hong Kong. By the time we're through you'll be spending that on lunch."

She smiled at him. She knew she should be running as fast as she could in the other direction but Charlotte just couldn't say no to him, this was too interesting and she had a strange feeling that rejecting his proposal would probably be the last thing she ever did.

"Seems like you've got this all planned out, so what do you need me for?"

"My brains and resources, combined with your talent and connections? Honey we'd be unstoppable."

And with that little bit of flattery he'd banished all doubt from her mind. He was good. She stretched a hand out across the coffee table,

"Mr Moriarty, I think you've got yourself a deal."

He shook her hand,

"Please, call me Jim."

"Alright then, Jim."

"Can I call you Sebbie?"

She laughed,

"Never."


	3. The WakeUp Call

**AN:** I wasn't going to post today but then I got a nice review and two story alerts and I felt flattered enough to add. This bit went better than expected so if my next chapter goes to plan I may be increasing the rating from T to M. You have been warned. For now enjoy the perils of waking jetlagged assassins at unreasonable hours.

"Good Mooorrrning Sebbie!"

Moran groaned as she rolled over groping for her phone in the dark. She squinted as the screen blared light into her blessedly dark world and dropped it back on her bedside table as she completed her 180 degree roll from her back onto her front.

"Fuck oooff!" she replied, mimicking Jim's singsong tone, her pillow muffling her yell.

Jim sat down on the edge of her bed, running his hand through her short hair.

"Now that's not very nice; I brought you breakfast!"

Moran could hear the rustle of a paper bag and then the scent of bacon hit her. Her mouth began to water. God she hated him.

Rolling back over, she grabbed her phone again, thrusting it into his face,

"It is four fifty-"; she turned the screen around to recheck the time, "three in the morning! I am jet lagged, I am bruised, I'm pretty sure I've been followed back from Chicago and I am very mad at you because you said there'd be two of them and I had to deal with six! Do you really think that showing up with a bacon sandwich at five in the fucking morning is going to fix that?"

Jim stared back at her with a look of pure innocence,

"Four fifty four."

She slapped him.

He rolled his head back to face her; she heard his neck click as it realigned itself after the force of her blow. Silently she took the brown paper bag from him, she was starving, she had to admit it, and of course he knew that she hadn't eaten in almost 24 hours, she had been very vocal about her hatred of plane food.

Jim sat in silence as Moran ate. It had occurred to her that she had never seen her boss eat and she had spent days at a time in his company. Once she had finished her sandwich she moved to speak,

"Don't apologise." Jim told her.

Moran stared back at him,

"What?"

"I said don't apologise. That was impressive; don't ruin it by chickening out and apologising. That would be sooo boring!"

She started to laugh; now it was Jim's turn to stare.

"Actually I was going to ask you what you eat."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Well I've never seen you eat," she confessed "so I was wondering; what, if anything, do you eat?"

A small half smile danced across Jim's lips and Moran felt her breath hitch. She wasn't sure whether it was fear or lust that made her heart jump, she'd seen Jim smile like that before, usually right before he was about to kill someone, or rather tell her to kill someone for him. That smile was, to most people, a terrifying sight, but there was something in her that found it unbelievably sexy. Maybe it was a power thing.

"I eat lots of things," he told her, speaking so softly she could only just hear him "but there's one thing I've never tried, that I'd love to taste."

Moran suddenly remembered to breathe again,

"And what's that?"

The moment of silence before he answered seemed to last an eternity as he leaned in so close she could feel his breath on her lips.

"You." he whispered, before pressing his mouth to hers in a fierce kiss.

Moran felt herself pulling him towards her as she explored his mouth with her tongue. He tasted of cigarettes and nicotine gum, ever the paradox she thought, and he had a retaining wire on the back of his teeth; that surprised her, she simply couldn't imagine Jim as a braces kind of boy. The assassin in her blood was screaming for her to stop, this would blow their professional relationship to pieces and could only end in tears, but she gave in to him as he pushed her back onto the pillow, pinning her wrists above her head.

Yes, she thought to herself, power was definitely the sexiest thing about Jim Moriarty.


	4. Upsides of a Traffic Jam

**AN:** Okay I warned you. This one is most defiantly M rated. Repeat the rating has gone up! If you are not a fan of car sex stop reading here. I will let you know when the fic gets more you-friendly.

He was getting annoyed, that was obvious enough. Normally Jim entered an almost meditative state when they were in the car but this meeting was important and the traffic jam was getting him worked up. Normally he'd rant on for a bit and then be fine, she could handle that but today was one of the rare occasions when he was carrying a gun. Moran wished she hadn't insisted upon it now because she would either get a full blown rant or the unsuspecting driver would get a bullet in the back of the head for a traffic jam that wasn't his fault. She really didn't want to argue with him nor did she want to clean this kid's brains off the windscreen of the car. Not that she'd be doing any actual cleaning but she didn't want the hassle of calling some of her boys to come and do it for her as well as waiting for one of the other cars to come and pick them up. She really hoped something caught Jim's attention soon; he was becoming insufferable these days.

Jim gave a dramatic sigh and started drumming his fingers on his armrest. Moran glanced out to the road ahead and the traffic did not look like it was going to let up soon. Oh how she hated London. An idea suddenly hit her of just how to keep her boss 'entertained'. It would probably earn her a few brownie points for the next time she was a little late or tired and snappy.

Moran unclipped her seatbelt and slid forward so she could shrug her jacket off more easily. As she bent down to slip her heels off she could see Jim out of the corner of her eye turn to watch her.

"What are you doing?"

Oh he sounded very tetchy, she smiled to herself as she slid over the cream leather seat to drop into the foot well on Jim's side of the car.

"You looked bored," she told him with a smile "I thought I'd entertain you."

She knelt up between his knees, stretching to kiss him before sliding a hand, slowly up the inside of his thigh. Jim stared back at her, looking slightly bemused. He raised an eyebrow as she undid his belt and took him into her mouth. She felt his whole body tense as she did so. He loved it when she did this, and if it kept him happy then she was happy to give him one of his favourite things.

For several agonising minutes she made long slow licks up the side of his cock as he started to groan with pleasure. Soon enough his hands found their way into her hair, holding her close as he pushed himself further into her mouth. It only took him a few desperate thrusts before he came in her mouth and he slumped back into the car seat gasping for breath. Moran watched him while she wiped him from her mouth; this was one of the few moments in which he seemed truly vulnerable. It was nice to know that she could make the mask slip, but it didn't last long.

Jim was quick to recover himself and he hated to owe anyone so he pulled his sniper I up from the floor of the car so that she was straddling his lap. He could taste himself on her lips as he kissed her, he loved kissing her after she'd sucked him off; the combination of their tastes was intoxicating. While he pushed one hand up under her shirt the other made its way up her skirt to hook a thumb inside her knickers and run gentle circles around her clit. She practically purred as he stroked her. He didn't need a white cat, he had his Sebbie. She rocked in his lap, trying to increase the friction between them; it was working. He felt himself go hard again beneath her and he decided that there was nothing else for it; he was going to have to fuck her, right here in the back of the car. If the driver dared to say anything about this, he'd regret ever being born.

There was some awkward fumbling as Moran slipped out of her underwear, but once Jim was inside her it didn't matter. For two frantic, mostly unpredictable, people their sex was slow, measured. It was almost like a kill for them; it had to be savoured because the good part was over in an instant. Moran rocked back and forth in her boss's lap leaning back against the back of the front passenger seat with her eyes closed, she liked to savour the sensation. Jim preferred to watch her; see all the little changes in her face, see what he could do to her while he just sat there with his hands on her hips, controlling her pace.

Moran started to speed up as she got closer and Jim grinned to himself as her panting grew quicker and turned into outright moans. She wanted to lean back further, to grip the headrest behind her but Jim pulled her in close, and the increased friction intensified everything, she wrapped her arms around his neck, running her fingers through his hair as she whispered his name in his ear and begged for more. Her breath hitched just before she came and Jim followed quickly after.

Her body relaxed into his and he began to stroke her hair and kiss her neck as she caught her breath. If he had been at her mercy before, now he was completely in control. If he felt like it he could snap her neck right here and she couldn't even fight him.

From the front the driver spoke up,

"Five minutes Mr Moriarty."

The boy deserved more credit than he'd first thought, not only was he pretending to be completely oblivious to the last twenty minutes of the journey but he was giving them time to tidy up. Annoyingly this warning did mean that Moran had to slide out of his lap.

Moriarty zipped himself back up and smoothed his hair back down. A quick glance in the rear view mirror told him there was a small lipstick stain on his jaw which came off easily. Moran had a harder time of it. Her skirt had shifted round; it was slightly funny to watch her wriggling in her seat to shift it back to where it should be. Her shirt was obviously stained so she stripped it off, perfectly happy to go out with the white tank top on under her jacket instead. As she lent down to retrieve her knickers from between Jim's feet he caught her wrist.

"Leave them off," he told her.

"Sir?"

"The traffic'll probably be worse on the way back."

Moran grinned at him,

"Oh I really hope so."


	5. Awkward Questions, Shocking Answers

AN: It's currently three am; I've stayed up to finish and post this now that I have story alerts in double figures! (Thanks guys) I felt I owed you all another chapter as a thank you. I'm so happy that so many of you like this so I'd like to make it even better for you, please review and leave suggestions for what you think Jim and Sebbie should get up to next,

Regards,

Artemis

Some days are wild. Moran will wake up in a foreign country, unsure of her own name, with blood on her hands, a body to dispose of, a crime scene to clear up and a plane to catch back to her mad boss before he blows half of London up just to see if he can.

Other days are surprisingly domestic. These are her favourite days; the calm before the storm. She knows that, when they have days like this, one of Jim's plans has finally slotted into place. He's ready to start the cogs turning and no one in the upper echelons of the Moriarty Empire is going to get much sleep for the next few days. So they have 'their day' as Moran affectionately refers to it.

She often swears that Jim has no concept of the word 'subtle' but today he wakes her gently with kisses up from the base of her spine, tracing circles across her skin with his fingers. When she stretches and rolls over to tuck herself further into his body he doesn't protest or jolt her awake, he lets her drift back off. When she wakes properly she finds herself wrapped in his arms and Jim seemingly content to simply lie there with her as she slept.

She gave him a gentle nudge,

"I thought you didn't do cuddling?"

"Well you just looked so cute, I couldn't help myself." Sarcasm dripped off every syllable.

"Fine, don't play nice."

Moran settles back down onto his chest and, as always, her hand trails its way down his side to trace its way over his left leg.

It had shocked her the first time she'd seen Jim naked. He was, she had to admit, everything she'd fantasised about over the few months that they'd known each other before he'd finally bedded her. The only thing she hadn't expected was the leg. It was an impressive injury for a man who never 'got my hands dirty'; it started with surgical scarring at his hip, the scarring getting progressively more complex until his leg ended suddenly about three inches below his knee. The injury had intrigued her and she decided that now was as good a time as any to actually ask,

"Jim?"

"Mmm?"

"How did…How did you erm,"

"Lose my leg?"

"Yeah."

"You should know," he told her as he rearranged himself in the bed; shifting Moran from his chest to tuck her under his arm, "you were there."

"I really don't remember you getting so badly injured that you had to-…" Moran cut short as it suddenly dawned on her, "Oh!"

"Theeeere we go!" Jim sounded almost gleeful as the realisation registered on her face.

Moran sat up to face him,

"I did that?"

"Well yeah!"

Moran briefly wondered in what world that was that the obvious answer that Jim was making it out to be,

"You are the only person who's ever shot me" Jim continued "although you can't take all the credit. My bodyguard in Hong Kong claimed to be able to do first aid, however he was terrible at tourniquets. I had him shot."

"You were going to have me shot," Moran reminded him.

"I'm so changeable though. Thank God it's my only weakness! Well that and crap telly."

Moran buried her giggle into her pillow; their lazy days were her favourite, it was then that she could almost convince herself that Jim was human.


	6. The Game Begins

AN: Apologies for the long gap since the last post but I've had exams and haven't been too well recently, I hope that this particularly gory chapter makes up for it. Also this one was very hard to write, it was a struggle but on the other hand it has been far more rigorously edited than previous chapters. Reviews are a rather marvellous cure for writers block! Chapter 7 to follow soon.

Please review(this is not out of vanity, reviews help me to know how to make this better!)

Artemis.

Warning: Contains scenes of torture, cruel and unusual punishment and mentions of terrible death. But that's what you're here for.

Jim's rant based on this fabulous video: www(dot)youtube(dot)com/watch?v=fYOVoP7h7F8 (remove (dot)s)

It was the way they ran that fascinated her. They knew who he was; they knew the weapons he had at his disposal; they knew that he would catch up to them eventually but they always ran and naturally, when they did, Jim always sent her after them.

Jim was waging his latest vendetta against another Irishman; a gangster by the name of Finney, and his obsession with the man, and his insistence that Moran take him down herself was getting on her nerves,

"Why do I have to race around the world after this idiot? Why can't I put a bullet between his eyes from 600ft?" Moran wrapped her coat closer around her as she made her way across a rooftop to a helicopter waiting to whisk her from the centre of New York to Newark Airport.

"Because I told you to sweetheart," Jim sounded less pleased than she was,

"Okay someone's pissed you off, and I hope they're dead by the time I get back because you are not projecting your foul mood on to me; you don't pay me enough to put up with your tantrums."

"Then maybe I should replace you with someone cheaper."

Subconsciously her free hand wandered to the scar on her arm, things between them had changed after that particular…incident, but there was no way she could just walk away from him, if she tried she knew that it would be her running from city to city trying to outthink one of his hired goons. Who was she kidding, he'd already told her that he'd come after her personally. She could still see him, staring at her blood on his hands, telling her that, for her, he was willing to get his hands dirty.

"No," she said "for a start they'd lack my work ethic."

The knot in her stomach released when she heard him laugh.

"That's true. Now get back here before I start breaking your stuff. Finney's going to break cover in London and I want you to finally catch our little fly."

"Okay Sir, I'll see you in a few hou-" Moran's brain rewound back through the conversation, "break my stuff? Jim are you in my flat?"

She heard something that sounded suspiciously like one of her plates smashing on her kitchen floor,

"Maybe"

"For God's sake! Jim, please don't mess with my things! It's a seven hour flight I will be back when I am back, there is nothing more I can do about it so don't take it out on my precisely ordered possessions! I will beg if I have to."

The long silence that followed was punctuated by a sigh so drawn out and exasperated that it sounded like a death rattle,

"Fine, but I'm not doing this to be nice. I'm doing it so you won't ruin my fun. I want to enjoy that bastard's terror and your moping will just put a downer on everything!"

"I'll see you soon Sir."

Alexander Finney was part of, what the press liked to call, The Dublin Mafia. Shortly after his rise to power he had ordered the assassination of a relatively small-time rival who was starting to seem like a possible future threat. The attempt on the other criminal's life had failed but had earned Finney the lifelong hatred of his intended victim; James Moriarty.

Jim had made the destruction of Alexander Finney his pet project. He had stolen contacts, jobs and staff from him; he had given the police enough evidence to send Finney down for life, but worst of all he had sent several important men in the crime world proof that Finney was snitching to the police about them and they, in turn, all went running to the world's only consulting criminal to help them hunt Finney down, and Jim was more than happy to oblige. And now Finney was running, trying to get to, probably, the last person who would be able to help him. Usually their meetings were strictly appointment only but there was no time now he had to get help before Moriarty got to him.

It was careless, he admitted to himself, to simply duck into the first cab he saw outside his hotel, particularly for a man with a very large price on his head but there was no real time or reason for regret as he saw the blonde woman sat before him, heard the door lock behind him and felt the gun she had pressed into his crotch.

"Sit down please Mr Finney."

He took one of the little fold-down seats opposite her as the cab moved off.

"I'm surprised Jim didn't come himself, he liked the personal touch, back in the day."

" 'Jim' is a busy man, Mr Finney, he doesn't get his hands dirty." Moran lowered the gun but Finney didn't relax, he knew Moran's work, she wouldn't let down her guard unless she could be certain of her own safety.

"So, is it your policy to go after former clients? Or is this a special case?"

Moran raised an eyebrow,

"If I was that picky I'd have to retire. Besides I told you that you should have just let me kill him, you can't blame me for your own ego."

Outside the cab it suddenly went dark and Finney realised they'd driven into a deserted warehouse, rather like the one he'd met one of his contacts in several times. For one brief moment he hoped the whole thing had been an elaborate joke, that this was just a way of bringing him to safety but that hope was short lived as the door was wrenched open and Finney found himself being dragged across the warehouse floor by two goons. He was dropped before a very expensive looking pair of shoes that peeped out from beneath the cuffs of a dark blue designer trouser suit and on top of it all was the grinning face of James Moriarty.

"Hiya Alex! Long time, no see!"

"Jim, mate, I can expla-"

"No Alex you can't." Jim knelt down in front of him, griping Finney's jaw in his hand, forcing him to keep eye contact, "You can't explain why you tried to have me killed, nor can you explain why you sold so many people out. What you can do is give me the name of your contact in the police. My clients want this network shut down and I want that name."

"I can't, I can't," Finney was sobbing now; Moriarty looked up to see Moran grimacing at the sight of an overweight 45 year old on his hands and knees, snivelling like a child.

"Give, me, the name."

"You can't do anything to me that he can't top! You can torture me as much as you like but when he gets hold of me he will find something ten times as worse!"

Jim laughed,

"Oh Alex, dear naïve, stupid, little Alex," he muttered to himself, "What on earth makes you think that I would EVER, LET YOU GO!"

It was as if a switch had flicked in Jim's head, the calm, menacing little man was replaced by a pillar of burning rage and just as quickly he seemed to supress it all back down to barely a whisper. "You make me sick, STAND UP!" Jim dragged Finney to his feet, pulling him closer until their faces were barely millimetres apart, "I will rip your goddamn heart out. I will burn the flesh from your FAT, arrogant, bloated, body and brand you with your shame. I will pull out your teeth one by one and insult your clothing. Did you think I needed you? Did you think I needed you silly, tiny little mind? I don't need you, I DON'T NEED ANYONE! Hear me now Alexander, if you don't give me that name then I will make you know pain unlike anything you have ever known. With Satan as my witness, I will make you know pain and fear worse than anything forged in the darkest bowels of cruelty itself, you loathsome, pathetic, cowardly, dribbling, festering, maggot! I WANT HIS NAME!"

Finney shook as tears rolled down his cheeks, from behind Moran couldn't quite make out the tiny little head shake that he gave Jim. The first she knew of the refusal was Jim, snapping his fingers and the goons grabbing Finney again.

"Moran, break him."

They were prepared for this. Moran had decided to test out a modified version of a technique she had once experienced first-hand. In a darkened corner of the warehouse had been set up an old tin bathtub, filled to the brim with ice cold water. Alexander Finney now found himself, rather unceremoniously, being thrown into it. As he emerged from beneath the water he was grabbed again, one of the goons holding him still while the other attached something to him. Suddenly the pressure on his shoulders was released and his mind blanked as he spammed in agony. After four agonising seconds the pain stopped and, once his mind had cleared, he had barely enough time to realise that they had hooked him up to a battery before Moran flipped the switch, and shocked him again.

Over the next fifteen minutes the process continued, twice they upped the voltage and once Finney found himself being beaten back to consciousness without realising he had even passed out. All the while Moriarty looked on, watching with a face of impassive boredom that one would usually associate with waiting for a bus, not witnessing a torture session. He was completely unresponsive until Finney caved,

"Please!"

"Give me the name Alex." Jim told him with a shrug "Give me the name and this will all stop. It'll all be over."

"My-, Mycroft... Mycroft Holmes… Government… MI5 I think."

Jim gave Finney a satisfied smile,

"There, that wasn't so hard now was it?"

"You stop now?" Finney slurred,

"Oh yes," Jim told him "it's over now; it's all finished for you."

Jim reached out and flipped the battery voltage as high as it would go. Finney's screams were so agonising that eve Moran looked away, but Jim stared on as the water in the tub boiled, still smiling.

A few days later when the remains were discovered a file found its way onto an unremarkable desk in an unremarkable office in Whitehall.

"Sir, Alexander Finney's been found dead. There were signs of torture; we fear that he may have given up information about Ouroboros."

Mycroft Holmes smiled up at his assistant.

"You can stand down the cavalry Anthea, Finney doesn't know enough about Operation Ouroboros to compromise it. In fact the only two people who even know its name are you and I. Keep me informed."

"Yes Sir." As she reached the door, Anthea turned to face him, "Three people Sir.

"Hmm?"

"You said only we knew about it, but surely Ouroboros knows about it too?"

"Ah yes, but officially Ouroboros does not exist Anthea."

"Then surely there's nothing _to_ know about Sir?"

"Quite right Anthea; now you're getting it." Mycroft returned to his paperwork, "Carry on."

"Yes Sir."

**AN:** Again, reviews are appreciated and very helpful for powering through writer's block!


	7. He's Like Me

AN: Again I apologise for the recent drought in posts so I thought I'd make it up to you by posting twice in less than twenty-four hours. This is a short one but I hope the plot-progression makes up for it. Also if you don't know who Keyser Söze is please DO NOT GOOGLE HIM! Instead watch "The Usual Suspects", just Googling him will ruin the plot twist in what is probably the greatest thriller movie of all time and if you choose to do so anyway, I kindly ask that you never reveal the secret to anyone. It's the spoiler to end all spoilers. It's bigger than the ending of "Fight Club" (again; watch, don't Google) so don't ruin it for others. Thank you.

As usual all reviews are loved and cherished and replied to.

Artemis.

"How can you not have heard of him? He's like Keyser Söze or something! Everybody's heard of him!"

Jim shot her a withering glance across her kitchen counter,

"Don't be stupid Charlotte, if anyone was Keyser Söze it would be me."

"What I mean is, he's a story. This mythical man, who rules the world, can track down anyone, can manipulate anything. I'm sorry Jim but Finney was having you on, there is no such person as Mycroft Holmes. Come on even the name's stupid!"

Jim only smiled as he dropped a brown envelope onto the counter; in between the two fresh cups of coffee Moran had just set out,

"I beg to differ."

Inside the envelope were several black and white photographs of a tall man in a three piece suit, a smartly dressed woman with glossy hair close at his heels as he stepped out of a black jaguar.

"This is him?" Moran demanded, not quite believing that Jim could have found the man within three weeks of hearing his name.

"That's him?"

"So, what then? Am I killing him?"

Moran resisted the urge to slap him when he rolled his eyes,

"No, don't be obvious! He's far too well protected for that. Anyway it's not him I'm interested in."

"Who then, the woman? I doubt she'll be easy to manipulate if she works for this guy."

"No," Jim got up from his seat, taking his rapidly cooling coffee with him as he walked to the window, "keep looking."

Moran flicked further through the pictures until the subject changed, now she was staring at a younger man with dark curls and shockingly sharp cheekbones.

"What about him?"

"Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft's little brother. Drug addict, possible sociopath, 'Consulting Detective', genius." Taking a sip of his drink he stared out of the window, lost in thought as Moran flicked through the pictures again.

"Oh!" she said, finally.

"Oh?"

"I get it now."

Jim glanced back at her with an amused smile,

"And what exactly do you get?"

"This isn't about Mycroft Holmes is it? It's about Sherlock Holmes. He's a challenge, and there's nothing you love more than a challenge is there?"

Jim turned towards the window again,

"He's like me," he told her in a far-away voice, "Brilliant," he took another sip of coffee, "and misunderstood."


	8. Not The Worst Day Of Her Life

Well here we go; new chapter in which Moran is bruised and Jim needs to be normal. We spend a lot of time in Moran's head in this one. I fear my 'Mrs Dalloway' revision is having an effect on my writing style!

As always please review! I do a little happy dance every time I get one.

Artemis

Moran had to admit, she'd had worse days. Discovering a psychopath she was supposed to have killed sitting on her couch was a pretty bad day, getting electrocuted until her fingerprints had been burnt away was definitely a bad day, although it had come with the bonus of allowing her to work without gloves. So yes there had been worse days, but being thoroughly beaten and kicked out of a car still doing 60 was going to make her top five list of bad days. At least the bastards had the courtesy to dump her less than 100 yards away from her flat.

Propping herself up against some railings Moran sat for a while, attempting to regain her breath. She pulled her phone from her pocket only to find it unresponsive, with the screen cracked to hell. Swearing to herself she threw it into the road, or at least tried to throw it, the pain that shot through her shoulder shot through her arm and for a moment her vision went white. She reached up cautiously, using the iron railings to pull herself to her feet. It wasn't until she doubled up in pain and began to cough up blood that she realised trying to stand up straight was the biggest mistake she could make. Gently, Moran sank back down to her knees where the pain subsided. Closing her eyes, she rested her head against the cool metal of the railings and hoped that whatever internal injuries she had suffered killed her quickly because she was fucking freezing. As she lost consciousness she was only vaguely aware of the man who knelt down in front of her.

The bed she woke in was not her own, nor was it a hospital bed, which saved her from answering some very awkward questions about her injuries. She gingerly pulled herself into a sitting position, every muscle screaming in protest. It was the view that finally told her where she was. Jim claimed his changeability as his only weakness; Moran thought that his love of beautiful things should be in there as well. Jim's double height room had a floor to ceiling window giving him an impressive view over the Thames and the city of London, standing at that window made you understand how Jim saw the world, tiny and distant and fragile. To Moran it was proof of his God Complex.

"And what do you think you're doing Charlotte?"

Jim stood in the doorway watching her hobble towards the window. Charlotte, that's who she was today, Moran was immortal, indestructible, Charlotte was fragile and weak as a new-born kitten. Moran would have a witty line for her boss, Charlotte was suddenly very conscious that she was in a vest and knickers. Somewhere in the pit of her stomach Moran woke up and reclaimed the body from little Charlotte.

"Just admiring your view," she smiled as she propped herself up against the glass, "Promise me you won't get rid of this one until you have to, I love it too much."

"Tell you what, I'll swap you."

Moran stared at her boss,

"What?"

"You can stay here for a few weeks and I'll use your place." Jim insisted.

"No Jim, I like my flat, I'll be fine there."

"That's what you said last time I saw you. And look how you end up; half dead, bleeding all over your own doorstep."

Moran frowned and looked at him, the comment was too innocent, as was the look he gave her as she stared at him. He wouldn't would he? Was Jim Moriarty the kind of man to have her beaten to a pulp just to prove a point? She thought she was going to be sick as the realisation dawned on her; yes, he was. Moran shattered, exposing vulnerable little Charlotte again. He could break her, he would if he had to and he would enjoy it.

"I didn't know you dyed you hair" he announced airily.

Moran bit back her first reply, 'There's lots of things you don't know about me', Jim would only see that as a challenge and there were things she had to hide from him. Instead she went with,

"I wanted to see if it was true."

"To see if what was true?"

"That blondes have more fun!"

Moriarty laughed at her,

"And do they?"

"Oh yes. So you're sure I can't go back to my flat?"

"No I'm using it."

Finally the truth!

"Oh really?"

"I've got a job at St Bart's, the IT department. Don't look at me like that," Moran's eyebrows had shot up in surprise "I found a way in. There's a girl in the Morgue who hangs around with him, Molly she's called, she's infatuated with him. She'll get me close."

"Is this about Sherlock again?"

"Yes! "

"So you need my flat to look normal?

"Yes! Keep up!"

There was no point arguing with him, he was in one of his moods. In a way Jim reminded her of her brother, the way he sulked, his stubbornness, his odd little obsessions, they were very alike, except she hadn't been scared of her brother since mummy had explained to her that no he couldn't magic monsters under her bed.

"Okay fine, I'll stay here, if it'll get you closer to this Mycroft Holmes bloke."

"Mycroft? Oh no, Mycroft's boring. Sherlock though, he's right up my street. It's him I want."


	9. Bringing The Pieces Into Play

So I know this one is very short but I promise it's just to keep things going until I've finished the next chapter (I've been having trouble with it) and I thought a short update was better than no update at all.

Artemis.

When Jim put his mind to something it really was impressive. The Suicide Murders hit the press with a bang. Of course Jim didn't actually do any of the work, he kept strictly to his mantra of "not getting his hands dirty" Moran did respect him for that; she'd worked for a few people who were just so desperate to interfere that they screwed everything up. Jim loved precision and wouldn't let anyone get in the way of it, not even himself.

The set-up had been tricky, trying to find a human weapon essentially. Jim's instructions had been "someone obvious, but subtle" which just sounded stupid to Moran, but she wasn't arguing back. He was on edge and she sure as hell wasn't going to be the one to provoke him.

In the end the taxi driver had come to them. Desperate, dying and clever, as well as being a hard up, guilt-ridden father and practically a ghost. He was perfect. Now the only issue was getting hold of Jim to find out what he wanted her to do with the bloody man! She was on her way to meeting the driver and she still couldn't get hold of her boss. Thinking there was no harm in trying she decided to give him one last call. Finally on the fourth ring he picked up,

"Hello" his voice was croaky,

"Finally! I've been trying to get hold of you for days. Where have you been?"

"Sleeping"

"For four days?"

"Yes!" he was sounding impatient now "what do you want?"

"What am I supposed to do with this driver?"

"What driver?"

In the background Moran heard a lid pop, knowing Jim he was probably re-administering whatever had knocked him out for four days.

"The taxi driver!" Moran clamped her hand over her mouth. She'd shouted at him. He wasn't going to like that. She'd hit him, she'd drugged him, hell the first time she'd seen him she'd shot him and he didn't bat an eyelid, but he was really touchy about her raising her voice. "Sorry," she muttered "I didn't mean to shout."

But this time he didn't seem to care. He talked her through the game he'd set up for the driver, his words becoming slightly slurred as whatever he'd taken began to kick in.

"Jim where are you?"

"Tha's my busin…ness, not yours."

"Maybe, but if you die of an overdose then I won't have any business at all."

"Oh we both know that isn't" he broke off to yawn "true."

"Night night Jim"

"Have fun with your taxi driver."

"Will do."

He hung up on her, presumably to go back into another four day, drug induced coma.


End file.
